


Mages and Mindflayers

by alethes



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, BG3, Early Access, F/M, Healthy relationships... maybe?, Jealousy, POV Second Person, Ranger MC, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, baldur's gate 3 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethes/pseuds/alethes
Summary: Previously "Just a Bit of Fun". Mostly snippets from BG3 EA. Centers around a female ranger main character and Gale, with the rest of the party thrown in.
Relationships: Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Wyll (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. Just a Bit of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gale's still hung up on an old flame, and Wyll has commitment issues. So, why not have just a bit of fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or does it feel like, of all three boys, a relationship with the demented vampire spawn is somehow the sweetest? Ah well.

You awaken to a pleasant soreness about your hips and the warmth of his body still beside you. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the songs of the birds in the Grove. Their melody is sweet to your ears, sweeter than you’d expect. It is a good day, a brighter day, perhaps even one that will bring with it a cure.

A shaft of light cuts into the tent and onto your nose, like a razor, and you squint against it before rolling over to snuggle closer into his side. 

“You’re awake,” you think out loud, and blink the sleep out of your eyes when he does not respond.

He is on his back with his hands folded neatly across his bare chest, gaze pointed upwards with that faraway look again, the one he gets when his thoughts linger on her. Your pleasant mood falters and it is the wrong question to ask, but the words tumble from your lips before you can stop them.

“So, how do I compare to a goddess?”

The sound he makes is confused, and a touch more incredulous than you're ready for, as is the crease of his brow. It seems deeper now than it usually is while your body shrouds it from the morning’s glow. How did you not see it? "The two aren't exactly comparable. Really, i-“

_Stupid._

You don't know what you'd expected. Nevertheless, you feel your gut twist itself into a tangle of sour knots as his mouth continues to form some eloquent and concise explanation about context and circumstance. You find that you don’t want to hear it, not in the light of day while everyone is waking. So, you laugh.

“Gale, relax. It was just a bit of fun, just the wine." You are on your feet before he can reply, “are you hungry? I’m starving.”

 _Clothes…_ Clothes and armor strewn about in your haphazard attempts the night before to get them off each other. _Get them on and get out._ “I should go wrangle us some breakfast. Astarion's gonna need a whole boar after the night we ha-... after that party.”

You’re pulling on pants and fastening buckles with unsteady, but, thankfully, practiced fingers. Behind you, you hear him saying something more. It sounds like an apology, but you never get to hear the rest of it. You are gone before he can finish.

*

Halsin doesn’t have a cure. He has a mission, and it takes you into the Underdark. It is far beneath the forests and further away from the sun than you have ever been, where the rocks are like ice and shadows cling to every part of you like oil.

Night and day fuse into one long and seemingly endless slog through flora and fauna you had never thought to encounter in your lifetime, each one as novel and deadly as the next. When you stop to set camp, you take care of each other’s scrapes and wounds as companions do, jokingly lamenting about the futility of it all should your tadpoles decide that today is the day that they are done with their meal.

Meanwhile, you pretend you don’t see the uncertain looks he throws in your direction, nor feel it each time he tries to nudge his way into your thoughts. Sometimes he succeeds, and you pretend you are as convincing to him as you are to yourself. But, time draws on with every sodden step, and the silence of the caverns seems to amplify the tadpole’s crooning. It begins to crowd out your dreams and waking hours.

It is becoming harder to think beyond the horizon, harder to feel like your actions are of your own accord. Each time you feel a palpitation, or sense something that isn't there, your hand flies to your face, wondering if those fingers will find protrusions there that aren't your nose and lips. Each scare reminds you that your days are numbered.

And, so it is that when the Blade asks you to join him for a night, you nod and let him draw you into his embrace. To feel a solid someone, to remember you are here. When Wyll takes you, you pretend you don’t see the soft cloth boots that stop before the tent flap as he plows into you, pretend that the flutter in your belly is for the man behind you as you feel his release.

Sure, his lips are just a little too plush, the jut of his chin a little bit too cocky with unwarranted bravado. His jaw against your neck is just a touch too smooth, and the scrape of his hips against your ass is perhaps a bit too rough. But this is nothing special after all, and time is not your friend, so what's the harm in having just a bit of fun?


	2. Monsters of the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Underdark is dangerous, who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else had a run in with the bulette right after those damned minotaurs?

You run into a pair of beings sporting the bodies of men topped with oxen heads. Gale calls them minotaurs, the Blade calls them dead-horns-walking, Astarion calls them dinner, and Shadowheart thinks you’re altogether too noisy. Lae’zel doesn’t appear to care what they are at all and is already charging, a battle cry that is something between a bark and a laugh on her tongue.

The party fans out. You stretch your bowstring taught, ready to let loose an arrow into what you hope to be a weak point at its neck, only to tuck yourself into a roll instead as you narrowly dodge out of the way of its massive club. Whatever they’re called, it crosses your mind that they are far too big, move too fast, and leap way too far to be natural. How does anything that huge even sustain itself underground??

Close quarters are not an option, but too far and they simply close the distance with a hop and a jump that took you thirty paces to cover. You’re tiring, and you need to get higher. The half-elf is humming a prayer, and all around you are the smells of iron, weave, and eldritch fire. Gale has one locked down with ice and grease, while the other three focus their efforts on its partner. And, under it all… the musk of moss, and water.

Water running.

Water splashing against rocks, slapping against hooves.

You turn in its direction, squinting hopelessly into the dark. Useless. Listen! You make an aggravated sound and decide to match its location by ear, thankful that it is not so far away that echoes might swallow it.

“Gale,” You shout over the noise, hoping he can hear, “water!”

You can’t tell if he’s heard you, but you fire two arrows anyway – the first of fire, overhead, to light the way, the second of lightning at the lumbering being’s feet. Nearby, you feel moisture collecting in the air as Shadowheart directs some of the subterranean waterfall its way. Then, with a flash of purple from somewhere to your left, the beast sparks in a most satisfying manner, prompting Lae’zel to dance out of the way. It topples to the ground, shaking it as it lands, and the githyanki leaps onto its back to land a killing blow.

Its buddy is NOT pleased. In one stride, it leaps, and Lae’zel disappears under its massive girth. Dust and shattered stones fly in all directions, and you squint through it to land a few more fire arrows. The warrior is probably down so there is no time to be cute. You’re happy just to have them hit somewhere that makes it flinch, lighting it up for the rest to lay waste to its monstrous bulk. 

*

When it finally goes down, it takes three of you to roll it onto its side, and you’re relieved to find Lae’zel badly battered, but otherwise alive. Turns out she even got a blow in too. Her blade is stuck in its ribs, to the hilt. You laugh, albeit weakly, feeling your own bruises now as your adrenaline begins to taper. You hold out a hand to help her up, but she waves you away. Her leg is broken, badly, and Shadowheart is already at her side, mutual survival superseding their usual distaste for one another.

You leave them to check on the others. Astarion if off to the side, not a hair out of place, and his ridiculous doublet miraculously unscathed. He sucks something off his thumb, probably blood, and bends down to rifle through some crates of contraband. Gale and Wyll don’t appear to have many more bumps and bruises than you, though the latter is clearly favouring his right side.

You’re about to greet them with a quip when the ground shudders once more beneath your feet.

Shit.

The digger. You all stop what you’re doing, frozen on the spot, waiting for it to pass you by. And, for a moment, it appears to have worked... until you hear it.

Astarion’s yelp is cut short by the sickening sound of crunching bone, and what follows happens in a blur. You aren’t quite sure how you end up standing - it certainly doesn’t feel like you have the skeleton for it. It doesn't take you long to realise that you’re the only one. You try to look around, but it hurts to move your head. Your ears are ringing, and your vision clouds over with blood, dust and tears.

Your only cue is the ground rumbling again. The vibrations reverberate painfully up your calves and spine and you squeeze your eyes against a sharp stab of pain that bursts between your ears like a firecracker. It knows where you are. It’s making a beeline for you, you can tell. But you aren’t thinking, you can’t. You’re dying.

_Not here. Not yet._

Suddenly, it is in your palm, as though by its own accord, the bauble you had foisted off those thankless Zhents.

You roll the small metal flask in your hand, thanking every god you know of that you didn't let Gale gobble this one up. But your whole body is trembling now, and you aren't sure if you're still breathing or simply gulping down air.

By some miracle, your fingers twist the stopper loose with more agility than you’d have expected yourself to muster, and you hold it aloft, muscles quaking with the effort. Only, it isn’t a spectator bursting from it this time. 

The rumbling stops some few yards ahead of you, followed by an eerie silence and, without warning, you are knocked onto your back by a gust of wind. You sense more than see a large shadow obscure what little vision you have left.

You aren't sure what happens next. All you're certain of, is the lantern in your hand, possibly because you're clutching it so tightly that its sharp relief is digging into your thumbs.

You are no longer conscious, at least it doesn't feel like you could be. It feels like an eternity before it all fades to nothing.


	3. Rosemary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wet dreams are made of this.

Something touches your brow, moving in slow circles. It complements a voice that is gentle and low, buzzing at the edge of hearing as the world comes back into focus. Gale’s face is the first thing you see. It hovers over yours, his eyes glinting in the dark like stars.

“There you are. You had me worried for a moment.”

He’s too close, but your body feels sluggish. You try to move and everything hurts. Even your attempt at a grunt sounds pitiful.

“Easy there, don’t want you falling apart on us.”

No, probably no. You expel a breath, frustrated. No less because crippled in the middle of nowhere would be a poor way to go, but for the nagging ache that blooms in your head as well, “what happened?”

“Bulette,” is all he says as he strokes your cheek. It is distracting… or maybe you’re just badly concussed. It would fit the bill.

“Where are the others?”

He shakes his head with a frown, “I thought I’d lost you.”

 _That’s not an answer._ “Where-“

But his hand is trailing further down, and you idly wonder how it still manages to titillate you while the whole of your body is screaming. That’s… not right... is it?

The scrape of his beard against your neck breaks your reverie, and you moan low in your throat when his lips follow, sucking teasingly.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

You don’t know why. You love him. Also, when have you not? He isn’t making any sense.

His hands are on your wrists, pressing them down into the dirt as he knees your legs apart. When his cock touches your folds, something coils and uncoils in your belly amidst your fog of lust. It makes your mouth water. It makes you hunger.

He's moving, and the friction of it is oh, so sweet that you find yourself rolling with him. Delicious is the tight hold he has on your arms. It surprised you the first time around, that a man of books and verse could keep you pinned with such force on one arm alone while the other brought you to delectable places. And now... Goodness, Chauntea bless him. “If you’d only let me in.”

You do. You want all of him.

You’re off the ground in a flash, flipping him onto his back. You delight in the give of his flesh as you sink your teeth around his jugular, biting and shredding sinew from bone whilst admiring, distantly, the pattern of blood it makes.

He screams as you devour him. 

*

The taste of iron floods your mouth, and you feel like you are drowning. When you cough, it fills your nose too. Somehow, you find the presence of mind to roll yourself over, and you promptly proceed to empty your stomach of blood and bile.

Destruction is all around you, but you’ve not the will to survey the damage yet. Not while your breathing comes in shallow huffs, and the last of… whatever that was… has yet to fade. Beside you, the flask smokes in a menacing way, its metal rictus of a grin lit up by an unholy glow as you fumble to stopper it.

When you finally do push yourself to your feet, the strength that infuses your muscles surprises you. You realise you do not ache. It is unnerving, but you table the thought for another day. You need to find their bodies.

The first you encounter is Shadowheart’s. Good, you’ll need the cleric. You doubt your ability to rub salve on a wound will do much good when you’re through.

Wyll and Gale are where you last saw them, looking as though the tunneling beast had pulled them into the ground where they stood. At least their limbs are all intact, but the necrotic energy pooling around the mage keeps you away. You consider it a small mercy that it hasn’t yet grown. It helps you chart how much time has passed. With some rope and an arrow, you manage to snag the pouch from his belt, which you clip to your own, saving it for later.

You drag the half-elf’s corpse closer to the other two, and spark some tinder to light a candle beside them. It’s a risk to call attention to your position now, but you have few other choices while the vampire and gith are nowhere in sight. You only get one chance at this. Thankfully, you find them not too far away, and you drag them unceremoniously over to the pile, each reminding you of a sack of potatoes while you wished the world for a wheelbarrow.

It’s done. You give the neat body piles you’ve made a last once over before dusting your palms off on your trousers, quite satisfied with the economy with which you’ve utilized the space. Absently, you wonder if Lae'zel would approve. Then, without much ceremony, you tug the purple string loose. You’ve done this once before, but a part of you still doubts you're up to the task. _This isn’t the time._

You push it from your mind and bring the flute to your lips to play the notes you know by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that's not how scrolls of true resurrection work. Yes, it bugs me a bit too. No, it's not enough for me to change it.
> 
> Also, would you consider this explicit or mature? Throw in your vote. I'll bump it up to E for now, just in case.


	4. Absurd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's alive, but no one's happy

He's shouting at you, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Wyll, the man who sold his soul to half a demon to soothe his pride, is giving you a tongue lashing for whatever it was you might have agreed to while in a fugue.

"Should I have laid back and died instead? You'd have done differently, I suppose?”

He folds his arms, and his eye is flat. If you hadn't known any better, you'd think his stone one was quivering, incongruently, with inflated glee, rather than disappointment. Even the Blade had his limits, apparently. "I expected some sense. I hadn't figured you so short-sighted."

You make an uncharitable noise, not bothering to temper the malice that creeps into your voice, "I let you into my bedroll after all."

"I'm not the only one, so I've heard," He retorts, tipping his chin up as though to assert some higher moral ground he had suddenly stepped on to, as though he'd won. Had he? You’d always hated that cocksure confidence he’d held up as a façade. You’re considering putting him in his place with a cuff across the jaw when you feel the press of his mind into your own, unsubtle like the rest of him.

"Don't you dare," you snap, clutching your head. The last thing you need is for someone to see what you saw between death and waking. But it's not enough. His fury breaks though, and the events of the past few hours are slashing through your mind like a mincer, revealing your hurt, fear, and ecstasy. Behind it all – someone, somewhere, a voice is pleading, asking to stop.

It does, eventually, and you return to find yourself on your knees, your temple pounding, and your throat sore. The world is still hazy, but you’re able to make out the shape of Lae’zel holding the warlock back. You're gratified to see he’s turned three shades of green.

"Maybe you'll stay out the next time I tell you to." It’s like your mouth has a life of its own.

Wyll’s scowl is back in a snap and your hand flies toward the hilt of your blade, but Gale stays it with a hand on your shoulder and a measured tone.

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you? You’ve both made enough noise to wake a Demogorgan.”

That is enough to give you both pause, though not enough to make you let down your guard, not while Wyll’s looking at you like you’re one of those monsters he’s vowed to slay. Only when he reluctantly holds his palms up in a silent sign of surrender, does your hand drop, and you let go of the breath you had been holding. It’s a relief to watch him stalk off.

“He has a point,” Lae’zel huffs, not missing a beat, “Using these powers is undoubtedly unwise, no matter the reason. And it appears that what happens to one of us happens to all of us. I will die before I become _Ghaik_.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, because she’s not wrong, and you thought you would too. It turns out, however, that your body has instincts that run contrary to your own inclinations. What is a person to do then?

“I’ll try harder the next time I’m bleeding out.”

She seems to take your snark at face value, for she turns on her heel to disappear into her tent without another word. Or, perhaps she’s just as tired as you are - it has been a long day. You’re barely aware of time passing when Gale’s voice cuts through the silence left in the wake of her departure.

*

“Everything okay down there?”

Your knees ache from crouching for so long, and you’re still dizzy from Wyll’s psychic assault, “Just… catching my breath.” Perhaps what you need is to get off your feet.

Trusting your arms more than your legs right now, you use them instead to ease yourself onto the ground. Its cool soil is a small comfort in this menacing underground, in part because it reminds you of the land above, but mostly because it soothes the blood still rushing through you with the prickling heat of anticipation. After a blessed moment of its chill settling into your thighs, you let the rest of you fall back against its mossy surface so it might work its wonders on your head as well.

Your moment of peace is broken by the crunch of dirt by your ear, and it comes as some surprise to see the wizard seat himself beside you. It’d been quiet long enough that you had thought you were alone. But his brow is drawn into a frown again. It makes you skeptical about where this promises to lead.

“I, ah, may have caught a smidge of what Wyll saw,” He says, avoiding your eye, “I’m fairly certain we all did. It was quite a doozy.”  
  
You groan, squeezing your eyes shut to will the world away, wondering for a second time if you should have left them all for dead. “It was a dream, and before that… well, I’m sure you’ve done things you aren’t proud of while unaware.”

He waves it away, “You’ve been dreaming of me.”

You briefly weigh the benefits of getting up to put some distance between you and the discussion you know is coming, against the continued comfort that the ground beneath you might provide. But your limbs are too weary, and comfort wins out. “That’s what you’re focused on? They’re dreams. They don’t mean anything.”

You can’t see it, but you can hear the discomfort in his tone. “It wasn't my goal to hurt you after the celebrations. You are unique… but I was young, when Mystra came to me, and it has been a long time since I’ve felt anything close. If I’m honest, I do yearn for her still.”

It doesn’t change anything, let alone help you feel any better, “What’s your point, Gale?”

“That it doesn’t make what we shared any less significant. I care for you, and I trust you - more than most. Whether that's love, I do not know. I cannot know to I see her again."

You snort. You can’t help it, it’s ludicrous. “See a goddess again? That sounds a lot like never. I’ve been tilling fields since I could kick dirt, and I’ve yet to see Chauntea or Silvanus manifest in more than harvests and weeds.”

He chuckles, and you crack open an eye to find him smiling at you, “You’d be surprised.”

You note the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle charmingly, thinking about those fantasies of forever they once brought. Now, as he reaches out to brush the hair from your face, you can’t help but flinch, “Guess you’d have to be Chosen."

It comes out harsher than you’d hoped. You’re still smarting from your confrontation with the warlock, and the wounds to your pride are still too fresh.

“Look,” you say, as you push yourself onto the balls of your feet again and pat the soil from your palms, “we’re both adults. It was a moment’s attraction, and now it’s done. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that. I’ll watch your back as well as I did before, until we get these slugs out of our minds.”

You hold your hand out to him to enforce your point, ignoring the warmth that courses up your arm into your chest from where your palms meet, and the ensuing thrill as his face comes a little too close to yours when you pull him to his feet. Let your body think what it wants. You’d just like to go home, thank you, back to your humdrum life before mages and mindflayers.

When he parts his lips again to say more, you’re grateful for the distraction of a soot-covered bear lumbering into camp. Halsin’s back from his scouting, a little worse for wear, and giggling in a weird way that, on a bear, comes off as a series of hiccupping huffs around too much teeth. You can’t tell if it’s a good or bad sign, but your bet is on the latter. And, by the look on Gale’s face, so is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't done much of the Underdark when I worked on the bit that once was chapter 4, and ended up getting a couple things wrong, more than usual. My bad. I may republish it again as a one-shot companion to this after reworking it, or have it find it's way back into this.
> 
> PS - Is it a demogorgon, or the Demogorgon? I'm sure there's just the one, but it sounds a little odd to me in that sentence.


	5. Sovereign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the duergar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's wierd that Halsin just lounges about in camp when he probably has the best intel on the way forward. Unhelpful.

It’s not as bad as you think. His tidings are quite optimistic, in fact. The druid had traced the strange spores to a colony of myconids who have some interest to the west. He brings news that Absolute minions had been sighted along the path as well, in the form of a group of duergar. It is the first solid lead you’ve had since you came down here.

You aren’t as certain about the creature he has returned with unfortunately. The overgrown mushroom is hard to read, but the look it carries in its beady, barnacle-like eyes strikes you as a touch too hungry. It lumbers alongside the group while Halsin leads from the front, and with each dead myconid you pass, the more malignant the spore cloud that surrounds it becomes.

Its sonorous psychic thrum is unending, droning on about raining destruction upon its foes and grating on your nerves while it washes out most other sounds of the deep cavern. Twice you’ve tried to block it out to no avail, and it seems not to hear you. Perhaps it simply does not care.

At the same time, it’s hard to fault Glut’s blood thirst, given the ruined state of the corpses you see. Even with their alien physiology, it is impossible to mistake the mangled limbs and hewn faces. Some have portions of their bodies burned to blackness, charred and smoking. Foul ochre liquid oozes from their wounds and pores, pooling around them in strange fluorescent halos. It makes you queasy to think about it, and you hope that they don’t feel pain as you do. From what you can glean of Glut’s menacing chant, however, you wonder if what they have is much worse.

*

“Must it be here for this?” Astarion seethes, through gritted teeth, grumbling over its pertinacious hum, “any more of its... singing, and I might just put it out of its misery myself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Glut seems right cheery to me,” Gale quips, fumbling distractedly with something from a pouch. You think you see the flash of tweezers as he furtively snags a sample off the bulky myconid’s hood, “even if it is at the prospect of more blood and death.”

This seems to placate the vampire spawn somewhat, as his mood visibly lifts at the thought of a duergar-sized meal. He quietens in anticipation, training his eyes further ahead where you can just about make out Halsin’s furry bulk. The druid has adopted the form of a large wolf to better navigate the narrow foot paths, but you couldn’t have picked him out quite as easily if you had not already known what to look for. Of all the things you miss of the surface, it’s being able to see more than two feet ahead of you that tops the list.

Gale must have noticed you squinting, because you recognise his magic tickling at your spine and neck, causing the world around you to dull just as it lights up. He smiles at you ruefully, pointing to his eyes in silent confirmation. After a pause, you return it with a thankful nod.

It comes just in time too. The druid has stopped, his nose pressed to the ground as he whuffs at the dirt. And, after a spell, he cocks his head at the group, jerking his chin to signal that there’s movement up ahead.

All seems quiet, save for Glut’s unrelenting mantra of retribution, where you’re able to make out the silhouette of a hut about the size of a small stockroom, but little else. It creaks like old wood tends to do, but a pattern soon emerges and you manage to locate three of them patrolling the ledge and path, and another two by the hut.

Going by Halsin’s descriptions, these are the duergar that you’ve been tracking for the past hour. They appear to be waiting for something, and looking quite put out at having to do so. But you aren’t going to find out more than that from just looking.

You nod at him, and point them out to the rest before signalling for everyone to split off to find their places. After your close shave with the bulette, it was agreed that deciding on some simple formations would be wise, and you don’t have to look to know that Gale and Astarion have gone to find their vantage points to the right while you and Wyll find your perches further left. Meanwhile, Glut, Lae’zel and Halsin have ducked behind separate outcroppings near the front, ready to strike.

As a precaution, Shadowheart has taken on the shape of one of the lolth-sworn - these Absolute cultists seem to respond positively to them – and you watch as she approaches them, boldly, as one might. You can’t hear what is being said, but their suspicion is clear, and expected. You nock your arrow just in case, carefully.

But the dark dwarf’s shoulders relax eventually and, for the moment, it appears the plan is working. You take the chance to check your blind spots. The other four haven’t moved from where you last saw them. As far as you know, they are none the wiser.

Glut’s voice continues to buzz in your head in the mean time. You flinch and instinctively press a shoulder against your ear as its pierced by a particularly sharp whine. Something has shifted in its tone, It’s becoming more insistent. His demand resounds through your skull.

_(("The fleshling takes too long!"))_

You feel its outrage, thick and viscous, in your mind. The Myconid had long lost its patience, it seems. It’s the only warning you get before it breaks its cover and charges at its nearest adversary.

Immediately, cantrips of light flare up around the arena, startling the dwarves enough for the cleric to duck for cover. Arrows and spells soon follow suit, making way for the gith to land a clean blow that sends his head flying over the landing.

The second scout is wilier. He harasses Halsin and Shadowheart with impact arrows as he weaves his way in and out of cover, dodging your own missiles nimbly. But for all his subterfuge, he fails to notice a crown of white hair appear by his shoulder. He doesn’t know what hit him when Astarion’s teeth clamp down on the thick artery of his neck, and sinks a dagger past his ribs.

“Vampire!” one of them cries in shock, turning its crossbow on the space that Astarion inhabited just two breaths ago, eyes wide and panicked under his helm. He narrowly misses being clocked across the neck by Shadowheart’s mace, and retaliates by jamming the butt of his weapon into her midsection, winding the cleric.

He rolls out of the way before she recovers and stands back to back with his allies as you box them in. His two friends beat their axes in an intimidating display that cause them to double in size and speed. They know they’re surrounded, and move to divide the focus of their attackers. But Halsin is ready for them, and the dwarves aren’t expecting to find a wolf so deep underground – let alone one of the druid’s size. Between their surprise and Glut’s spores, they manage to create enough confusion for the rest of you to whittle them down.

They move quickly in spite their bulk, and Shadowheart gets clipped in her side by the edge of a swinging axe. It smashes through her defences in one blow, splintering her shield and sparking against her chainmail, before you can cripple her assailant with a shot to the knee. The other one is taken down by alternating blasts of biting cold and scorching fire, shocking its system till it is reduced to a quivering mass. The cleric finishes him off with a snarl, while Glut shreds though another with a terrifying flurry of claws that move faster than the eye can see.

The third, however…

You don’t see him, not till he shouts from the ledge above you, panting, and bleeding from a head wound. He’s shrunken down again, and is leaning heavily against his axe. He won’t be long for this world now.

But he’s laughing, wetly. “Ye think we’d go down so easily?” He says with a sneer, tugging a medallion from his neck and crushing it under his heel, “Ye’ve chosen the wrong side, girly. See, now, what our Absolute can do.”

*

Whatever he intends, you're sure it's no good, and you let fly an arrow without a second thought. It’s too late though. You know it even as the shaft slides through his throat, uselessly, as a chorus of rattling moans begin to grow around you.

To your collective horror, the dead around you are rising. First the dwarves just recently dead, pushed back onto unsteady feet by some unholy power. Then, bodies you hadn’t even noticed, or paid much care – the remainder of the derelict village, from recent days to old, some in various stages of decomposition, rising to greet you like it were some deranged version of a town hall hearing.

There are dozens of them, throngs, eyes glazed over with rot and mouths gnashing at air as they drag themselves toward you on feet, hands or knees – whatever might hold them up. Some have bodies as mangled as the myconids you saw before, but they find a way to fling themselves in your direction anyway.

You don’t realise you’ve gone still till you feel a sharp sting across you cheek.

“Snap out of it!” Wyll shouts, tugging at your arm.

You do, with a mixture of gratitude and indignation, rubbing your jaw “Did you just slap me?!”

He mutters an oath you don’t quite catch and tugs you closer as he calls to the rest, “We gotta go! Fall back!”

Gale zips ahead of everyone, stepping through the air to appear on a further ledge, incantations of flame on his tongue as he works furiously to cover your retreat. Astarion is not far behind him, and, pretty soon, Wyll follows suit, dragging you along, wind (of the Weave?) shrieking against your ears.

The four of you are able to hold them off with fire and force, but it is unsustainable, and you don’t want to compromise the buildings’ structures. It would do you no good to topple the platform while the rest may still be still on it. But the dead keep rising, and beside you, Gale is tiring. The warlock and vampire aren’t doing too well either. You feel your own arms begin to burn.

Somewhere below, banisters begin to creak, and you hear the distinct snap of something splintering. Pretty soon, the constructed walkway will break under the weight of the undead, with or without your help.

“We should start retreating up the path we came by – create a funnel – maybe they’ll crowd themselves off the ledge into the chasm.”

Wyll glares at you, aghast, “We’re not leaving them!”

Astarion tsks, “Speak for yourself,” he mutters, turning to go.

“Can’t keep this up much longer, mate,” Gale wheezes, shaking his head as he edges back, his spell sparking momentarily in agreement, “We’ll only be overrun at this rate. They aren’t helpless. Perhaps we’ll lead the dead away.”

A howl in the distance, stops you in your tracks, and you’re relieved to be saved from the difficult decision of abandoning your allies when Lae’zel appears through the smog. She flies through the air and barrels into Astarion as she lands, knocking him onto his back with a grunt. Shadowheart appears not long after, her foot at an odd angle. She rides astride the wolf Halsin who lopes up the stepped slope with Glut in tow.

“MOVE IT!” The warrior hisses, as though you had been the one slowing her down, and drags the vampire to his feet as she goes. You comply without quarrel – it’s an easy choice with all accounted for – leading the way back up the slope, quick as your feet can take you.

*

The path ahead is narrow, but not altogether long. At the end of the train, Wyll and Gale are flinging the horde off the ledge with waves of energy. Grease and fire help slow them down, but fail to break their advance. There is no killing something that is already dead.

A misplaced step causes Gale to stumble. He very nearly trips over the edge, but Lae’zel is there to catch him. The mage is exhausted, and Wyll can’t keep up with the horde on his own. You and Astarion are plainly out of ammo, and getting too close would surely mean death, by bludgeoning, or falling – there is not enough space to manoeuvre.

“Need a plan B, guys,” Wyll grinds out, tossing another walking corpse off the rocks, only to have another immediately take its place. You’re nearing the end of the path, and there are still a good thirty of them and just eight of you.

You’re out of ideas, space, and moves. And there’s nothing you can drop on them, or make fall from under them, nothing to blow them up without risking bringing a mountain down on you.

At your wits end, you grab an orange from you pack and fling it experimentally to little effect. It draws a dubious look from the cleric now coming up behind you, one you can’t deny her… that was terrible. She draws upon her focus instead, and with a gesture and a prayer, the dead begin to disperse, walking themselves over the cliff.

The warlock crumples against the wall as the last of them disappears into the dark below, his breathing heavy and his limbs looking like jelly. He shoots a baleful look at the Sharran, “You couldn’t have done that sooner?”

“Had to wait for the right moment,” She chimes with a shrug, looking smug. Halsin heaves them both onto safer ground and she daintily eases herself off his back, limping over to an outcropping to examine her injuries.

One by one, the rest of you follow suit. It feels like you’ve run the stretch of Faerûn. The nook is small, but it’ll do to let you catch your breath.

_((“The tumour is excised. The Duergar are dead.”))_

Glut’s voice, which had been pleasantly silent for the duration of your ascent, rumbles once more through your mind, _((“Here, I break ground. From the dark will a mighty circle RISE. My song will fill the grotto!”))_

Nearby, Astarion has gotten up and wandered further, as though the small distance would dampen the noise.

You watch, sickeningly, while the mushroom hails your victory - its victory - carrying on like the sovereign of a brave new world. You realise before its halfway through that it intends to pit you against the other colony of Myconids to solidify its rule. That, or have your own corpses fuel the rise of his new fungal empire.

Halsin, his elven self again, shakes his head at Glut, unwilling to get in the middle of a turf war that didn't need to happen. And you concur - you haven’t the strength for another fight. You neither have the strength to convince the thing otherwise, not as the druid is so fervently attempting to right now.

But Glut isn’t taking no for an answer, its belly and neck swells with its growing agitation. Halsin looks about ready to blow a top himself when the Soveriegn’s threats are cut short by the slicing of a blade. All eyes turn to Astarion, who has appeared behind the slumping fungal form. Sword still in hand, he watches Glut’s head tumble down the slope, like a cheese wheel on the run, with no small amount of glee.

“What? It was going to kill us anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What about mage hands you say? Because I forgot. Let's just say they require concentration that they currently lack.
> 
> This should be the last fight montage for a while... tbf, the whole of the Underdark felt, to me, like a bad day that wouldn't end. I avoid it on most playthroughs, frankly. Next few entries should be quieter.


	6. Chapter 6

This project is on hold/discontinued till I'm through with [Strange Bedfellows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905428). Thanks for the interest you've expressed here. I hope you won't be too disappointed by what I'm moving on to :) 


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